


Old Homesystem Stuff

by jedishampoo



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Intersex Character, Community: 7thnight_smut, Guest appearances by the rest of the cast, IN SPACE!, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 21:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12219432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: Jiroushin is a successful transgalactic man of business, but something is missing from his life. It’s probably excitement.





	Old Homesystem Stuff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thienaultha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thienaultha/gifts).



> For the 7thnight-smut exchange 2017 on Dreamwidth. My request was for two important people stuck on a space station that is more than it seems. Thanks to my requester thienaultha and my betas, whymz and despina. <3

  
**Old Homesystem Stuff**  
  
Technology had made wondrous advances in intragalactic travel, even in Jiroushin’s piddling lifespan. Time was, if he’d gone on a company hop to the pointy end of the galaxy, it’d have taken so long round-trip that any young children he had back home would have advanced to graduation age by the time he’d returned. Nowadays, he could travel someplace like Ven’Keiun and back in a matter of weeks.  
  
Not that Jiroushin had any children, for he didn’t. The galaxy was still vast, and Tenkai spouses didn’t tend to care for having their mates gone for half their lives at the whim of some company. If they did care for it, they were likely ill-chosen spouses.  
  
And not that he’d set foot on Tenkai in a couple of decades, either. Home, where all the eligibles were. Since he was rather a traditionalist and had never been the type to find a galactic mate, he was perforce alone.  
  
It was just as well. Currently they were delayed for who knew how long by badly behaved neutrinos drifting about the sector. Technology still had its limits, and delicate spacehopping calculations still required certain conditions, ones that did not include the dispersal wave of a triple-system supernova. Which had likely occurred millions of years ago outside their own galaxy, but was just now reaching the pointy end and making travel hazardous.  
  
The government-issued alert had gone out that morning and their transport had been obligated to dock at VRD, a local sector station. Where a customs agent—a very young-looking custom agent—squinted at Jiroushin’s ID through his long fringe of lavender hair.  
  
“One hundred and thirty-six Tenkai years old, huh? You’re pretty well preserved,” the man said.  
  
Jiroushin huffed. “In awake years, I’m much younger,” he pointed out. Thirty-nine Tenkai years, as a matter of fact. And his were a long-lived people by galactic standards. Why, he wasn’t even middle-aged, really.  
  
“Yeah, I guess you were around for stasis-hops, weren’t ya?”  
  
“Stodgy old fart,” Fox agreed from behind him.  
  
Jiroushin ignored her mutterings. As her company superior, galactic social rules would have allowed him to offer her a set-down. He could have said, “like your husband isn’t older than some of the stars back in the Core,” but he didn’t. It reputedly wasn’t her fault that she’d barely become the man’s twelfth spouse before he’d been placed in a millennia-long correctional stasis for crimes against the Confluence. Furthermore, it definitely wasn’t her fault they were stuck here until the neutrino flares made hopping safe again. And lastly, correction of one’s inferiors was a privilege reserved for those born at more exalted levels than he. You could take the man off of Tenkai, the saying began.  
  
Still, he really didn’t care for Fox. He worked with her because he was told to; the company was the one paying, and he the one being paid. She was good, however, at ingratiating herself with people. He wasn’t. He was good at getting things done.  
  
“Okay, Jiroushin-four-er-crap, Mr. Jiroushin. Go ahead.” The man slid the ID back across the counter. His gloves matched his hair. “There’re still habs left on eighteenth to twentieth levels. You better get up there soons you wanna nab one. Heh heh hee.”  
  
Now that had been strange. Not just the laugh, the entire exchange. The purple-haired child was mighty flip for a governmental agent, and the fact that he’d almost seemed to call Jiroushin by his Tenkai birthrank? Sure, that information was in his HopDocs, but that was old homesystem stuff, and Jiroushin would have bet a trip’s commission that he was the only Tenkai within a hundred light years.  
  
He merely nodded, hiding a frown, and stepped back to allow Fox her turn with the agent. She oiled a sly smile onto her pink lips and slapped her ID onto the counter.  
  
The man didn’t offer any comments on her age, only grinned back at her and ran her docs. “Same goes for you, Ms. Gyokumen. Eighteen to twenty.”  
  
“Let us make haste, Fox,” Jiroushin said when she’d retrieved her ID.  
  
“Fuck that. I need a drink. Outers,” she said, and practically jogged past him through the scanners and onto the busy concourse.  
  
“But we need to acquire habitation— You won’t want to sleep in common areas—”  
  
“You’ll take care of it, I’m sure. Get me coded and ping me my room number,” she called back, and clacked off into the crowds as fast as her high heels would carry her.  
  
Jiroushin could refuse. Galactic social standards would say that she was rude and that she should be the one getting their habtel rooms, and those same rules would allow him to tell her so in no uncertain terms.  
  
But Jiroushin was a traditionalist. What was more, Fox knew it. He sighed and found a lift to take him to the upper levels before the rooms were all taken by other refugees from the neutrino wave.  
  
He found habs on eighteen—adjoining, even—and while his room was oddly shaped and not up to his usual standards or even the best or biggest the company would have paid for, it was clean and had the basics. Bed, console, shower. He would have sworn, however, that the big-eyed, perky and energetic urchin checking him in was not old enough to be a government employee. Ah, well, it was best not to judge other races by one’s own.  
  
Jiroushin ordered food in, and for a few hours he worked on his handheld, reading messages, answering messages, checking the news. The bad news was that the neutrinos were predicted to hang about for a few standard days. The neutral news was that the station was currently hosting a hundred-system art show. The good news was that their Ven’Keiun trading contact was also stuck on station and would be available for a premeeting.  
  
The walls were thin and he heard Fox come in late, giggling. He heard male laughter. And thumping. He sniffed to himself and pinged Fox: _Mr. Koum is here on VRD. Be ready for business early. Oh-nine-hundred.  
  
Fuck you_ , she pinged back. But then, _I’ll be there._  
  
Jiroushin got ready for bed. He stuffed plugs into his ears to preclude hearing any possible sounds of Fox’s nighttime activities. Thus was he was left alone, in silence, with his life. Like always.  
  
One hundred and thirty-six years—minus nearly a century of time spent in onboard stasis before rapid hoptravel had become widespread—and what did he have to show for it? A decently high position at an influential trading company. Some well-executed interplanetary deals. A lonely bed on an aging station in the pointy end of the galaxy, far from the core, far from home. His life was so boring he put himself to sleep thinking about it.  
  
  
***  
  
Ancient tradition held that the Tenkai were special, the chosen ones, fit to rule all they beheld on the ground and in the skies. Their society had its own strict strata system, but no matter their birthrank, all Tenkai were superior to the rest of the inhabitants of the universe.  
  
Of course, this was ancient Tenkai tradition, and the wider galaxy did not think them anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps the Tenkai even had a reputation for, er, pompousness?  
  
Truthfully, this reputation had served Jiroushin well. He carried an air of consequence, and Very Important Beings from other systems liked to feel that they were dealing with similarly other Very Important Beings.  
  
The ability should have served Jiroushin here. The Ven’Keiuni were new(ish) members of the Galactic Confluence, and known as a staid, serious people, hesitant to offer their trade to any old space riffraff.  
  
But the current situation was not working out the way Jiroushin had anticipated. Koum had looked serious enough, with his sleek, golden, wound hair; pristine white robes; and serene demeanor. His words belied his looks.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Mister Jiroushin. How fortunate we’re all here. Lovely. I don’t wanna talk boring business stuff right now. Let’s go look at some art!” he’d said.  
  
Jiroushin, nonplussed, stared at Koum. “Art,” he said.  
  
“Art is All on, uh, Ven’Keiun. Heh,” Koum’s dark-haired assistant, Uko, added. He laughed again and eyeballed the cleavage adorning Fox’s sharp suit before taking her arm with one hand and patting it with the other. “There! My job’s done for a few minutes. Whaddya think, delightful creature?”  
  
Fox just licked her lips and snuggled in closer. They walked off, and Jiroushin and Koum perforce followed.  
  
Mere Terran or no, Fox had got the jump on negotiations. “We’ve met,” she’d said with prurient smugness upon introduction to Uko, Koum’s so-called “scientific and cultural advisor.” Jiroushin thought the man’s voice sounded familiar.  
  
“I love business in its place,” Koum was saying as he walked, glancing around the station in apparent delight. “But the unseen gibblies have given us an excuse to visit the art show here on VRD, which I could not have done had we been planetside as agreed.”  
  
“Indeed,” Jiroushin said.  
  
“He means the neutrino storm,” Uko called over his shoulder.  
  
“Indeed,” Jiroushin said again. The business plan was crumbling in favor of a more social encounter, and his brain scrambled to rewrite the meeting script. “Do you come to this station often?”  
  
“Oh, yes. I love it here. The entire place shows the bones of ancient art, from near-extinct civilizations. Only look at the archways over the shops, the design of the tiles at our feet!”  
  
Jiroushin dutifully looked up, and then down. The exclaimed-upon items looked to him utilitarian at best, and messy at worst. Tenkai tended to prefer a more austere and harmonious natural aesthetic.  
  
Science, though, was a universal constant. Most sentient species came to the same point eventually: space travel, and then space trading and space living. Therefore local stations, no matter their origins, tended to follow a standard mold: space outside, air inside, a few docking facilities and berths thrown into the mix, and food and drink and shops to take people’s money.  
  
Perhaps once upon a time VRD had more aesthetically reflected the purpose of its long-fled builders, but most species also eventually came to join the Galactic Confluence, and membership in civilization meant that things had to be standardized, coded, and refitted to accommodate the maximum number of species.  
  
Of course there were places where the Confluence wasn’t, some local governments with death-grips on their own independence. Some rebels and outlaws. But not many.  
  
Regardless, Jiroushin found VRD rather unsettling, with only the veneer of governmental safety. He was mostly just glad his governmental-issued biofilter implant worked and he could breathe.  
  
“I see what you mean,” Jiroushin lied aloud to Koum and pretended to look around him with more interest. Archways! That one was downright ugly. The oxidized metal disrupted the flow of its design, and was it missing a stone there?  
  
“Chaos at its best,” Koum sighed.  
  
“Ooh, a crowd,” he heard Fox exclaim when she dragged her gaze from Uko long enough to spot the maelstrom of music and lifeforms thronging ahead. She liked excitement.  
  
Jiroushin abhorred it. But what else were people to do, trapped here so? “Likely the artists will be thrilled with such an audience,” he ventured.  
  
“One would think,” Koum murmured. “But you know. Art.”  
  
“There will be too many _consumers_ of Art, and not enough _aficionados_ ,” Uko translated.  
  
Koum laughed, and he actually clapped, like a child. “We’ll just be extra-afficionous,” he said.  
  
Jiroushin sighed. Oh, how he longed for a nice, cozy boardroom, and some tea.  
  
Fox and Uko shoved them a path through the crowds to the noisy first exhibit: it was a dance troupe from Changan. They watched for a few minutes as performers from at least four Changani genders swayed and clacked and ceremoniously jousted with the pointed metal caps on their four knees and six elbows.  
  
Jiroushin had to admit their dexterity, but the whole thing was just … busy. He thought himself urbane enough, but struggled to think how to appear more _afficionous_ , or whatever, to someone like Koum. How to make the exact right comment on the intricacies of the dance and the feelings it evoked.  
  
Fox beat him to the punch again. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen them before, and they were naked,” she said.  
  
“Sexy! Tell me everything,” Uko suggested as he shoved them a path out, through the other side of the watching crowd.  
  
There they found things less hectic and more to Jiroushin’s taste. It turned out that this was because they’d reached a paywall for the exhibition proper.  
  
“I’ll take this,” Jiroushin said, and stepped forward with his ID card and four fingers outstretched. Thus the company paid their entrance fee, and he was allowed to look good.  
  
Through the paywall, things were silent as a dead world. Seemed the fee had been rather exorbitant.  
  
“Perhaps we may merely consume after all?” Koum suggested, just as Jiroushin heard the most beautiful, most marvelously deep and throaty voice speaking from behind him.  
  
“Well, shit. It seems I’ve forgotten my money,” the voice said. “Do me a favor?”  
  
“Don’t know where ya think you are, but here ya gotta pay,” another voice drawled.  
  
Jiroushin turned to look and saw the tallest, most delightful creature he’d ever beheld standing there—oh, how he hated that the same words had come to mind that had ever described Fox Gyokumen, but there were no other words.  
  
The being had long, dark, thick, and wavy hair that floated down over a cloud of white, a dress that barely covered the most bountiful breasts imaginable, and she—no, s/he, it had to be! There could be nothing else to explain the glow that infused he/r: a god/dess. A true First!  
  
S/he had exquisitely pointed facial features, currently screwed into a pissed-off expression. S/he was in trouble! Here, in this dark corner of the galaxy, among the unschooled, the pitiful, s/he was alone.  
  
No, not alone. Not ever. Jiroushin straightened stalked over to glare at the paywall operative who was giving the god/dess a hard time. He was a lanky fellow with silly magenta hair. Good-looking, and utterly unworthy.  
  
“You don’t treat a—” Jiroushin sputtered. _Heathen._ He turned to the god/dess, eyes downcast. He whipped out his card and waved it in the direction of the operator. “Allow me.”  
  
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing in your suit, and with your tidy, old-fashioned hair. I oughta—” Then he/r melodious voice shifted from its singsong tone to a rather pouty flat. “Oh. You’re obligated, aren’t you? Well, we’re in the big galaxy now, cutie, so don’t you worry about me. I’ll just go back to my hab and fetch the credit card—”  
  
Jiroushin’s gaze flew up (blasphemous) at that. “No, wait! I must,” he cried. He was bound. He was hardwired from his very DNA to serve and s/he—  
  
S/he laughed. “Made you look! No, keep lookin’. Hmm.” S/he stared at him, right into his eyes, for several moments, as if weighing his soul. Then s/he grinned. “All righty, then.”  
  
“Thank you!” Jiroushin bowed and swiped his ID at the paybeam. The operator rolled magenta eyes to match his hair and waved he/r through with a muttered _g’wan, then_.  
  
“Ta,” the god/dess said, then pointed a gold-ringed finger at Jiroushin. “No bowing, though. Unless it’s normally polite bowing. And look me in the eyes!”  
  
Jiroushin forced himself to obey and look up. His bow of acquiescence was a tiny thing, a mere nod that pained him to offer. But s/he accepted it.  
  
“What’s your name, Fourth?”  
  
“Jiroushin.” He’d just managed not to bow again. Back on Tenkai, if he’d forgotten to bow or if he’d looked a First in the eye, there would be a throng of Seconds or Thirds ready to deal him blows. Perhaps even to the death. And it would have been his duty to die for the glory of a First.  
  
But then, he’d never had to worry about it, because he’d never been this close to a god/dess before. They were the highest form of life on Tenkai, the most revered and protected beings of all who had sprung from the Fountain of Existence. Both male and female, it was said their kind had perhaps even been the creators of the Fountain itself.  
  
Jiroushin had never thought himself particularly pious. But, there s/he was! In the flesh. Jiroushin was hardwired. Obligated, yes.  
  
“Jiroushin, huh?” S/he said his name with the slight accent of home, and oh, he missed home, then. “I’m Kanzeon Bosatsu.”  
  
“How mercifully and terribly lovely.”  
  
“Ain’t it? Well, well. A Fourth boy, way out here. Why don’tcha escort me around this place?”  
  
“Gladly.”  
  
“Ahem.”  
  
Oh. That had been Fox. Jiroushin turned to see her, and the rest of his former group, staring at him. Fox did it with annoyance and pointed eye gestures, Uko with fascinated glee, and Koum with gentle patience.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’ll have to leave you,” Jiroushin told them.  
  
Fox’s fingers curled into pointy-nailed fists. “You have got to be fuc—got to be kidding me. We’re on a business trip, here, and they are the business! Who’d’ve thought you’d be so rude—”  
  
“It’s, er.” Jiroushin tried to explain. “This is a thing I must do.”  
  
“It’s quite all right,” Koum said, one palm raised.  
  
“It’s some kind of weird caste thing from your planet, isn’t it?” Fox interjected with hissed disgust.  
  
“No, it’s love,” Koum said. “He’s found an art he can truly appreciate.”  
  
“No, it’s definitely a weird caste thing,” Kanzeon interjected, laughing. “Weird and outdated. But I’m definitely art, too, so I’ll put up with it.”  
  
S/he took Jiroushin’s arm (s/he touched him s/he touched him, oh, blessed day, had he ever seen colors before?) and waved slender fingers _bye bye_ at his colleagues. And he walked away with he/r, like in a dream.  
  
He may have heard dream-Uko murmur, “Art is right. Did you see those tits?”  
  
“Oooh,” dream-Fox growled.  
  
***  
  
The art was suddenly rapturous. The god/dess was chatty.  
  
“The guy was ticked off about it, but I told him, hey, either you are selling originals, or you’re selling copies. It’s not both and you’re not going to get away with it forever. Oh, that’s a nice one. Hot.” Barely not touching, s/he traced the curves of a sculpture, an abstract representation of an ancient god called Homura, reimagined for modern galactic sensibilities. Or so said the plaque stuck to its base. “I can feel his flames, licking my fingers. Anyway, that’s how I heard about this art show in the middle of nowheresville, from hanging out with that crowd. Can you believe it’s been seventy years since I left Tenkai? And I still don’t miss that damned lotus pool. I got so tired of being holed up in my little palace, you can’t even imagine.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Jiroushin said. Apparently the god/dess had spent that seventy years running around, from system to system, either exploring and enjoying he/rself or fixing what s/he saw as “problems.” Or both. It sounded exhausting. Or immeasurably exciting. Or both.  
  
Whatever the case, s/he didn’t appreciate Jiroushin’s diplomacy. “Yeah, you don’t sound sure. What are you really thinking?”  
  
“Er,” Jiroushin said, at he/r sudden narrow-eyed scrutiny. S/he had asked him a question, which he was obligated to answer. Still, he had the strange idea that s/he really wanted to know. “Well, I was thinking that a nice lotus pool sounds like just the thing, sometimes. Restful.”  
  
“Hn. You’re right. But we don’t always want restful, do we?”  
  
“Not until restlessness begins to wear us down,” Jiroushin said.  
  
“Wise.”  
  
Jiroushin’s heart did a weird thumpy-thump thing in his chest at he/r grin and approval; perhaps Firsts were actually dangerous at close range, with their rumored powers? Nevertheless, he was emboldened to continue. “I think I sometimes … miss our people. I see so few, because so few of us actually leave home. Don’t you miss your own kind?”  
  
“Nah. Most of the Firsts are assholes. Besides, there are other Tenkai everywhere. On this station, in fact.”  
  
“You’re sure?” Jiroushin said, and looked around before he could stop himself. He’d not seen any, and he’d always thought he had a good eye for those sorts of things, too. Except … “You know, Exalted One, one of the station employees almost seemed to call me Fourth, yesterday, before correcting himself. I thought it odd.”  
  
“I told you to call me Kanzeon. And did you? Hmm.” The god/dess put a finger to he/r lips.  
  
“But this seems a disorganized crew, on the whole,” Jiroushin added.  
  
“Disorganized, or perhaps just new at their jobs.”  
  
After that seemingly random statement, s/he towed Jiroushin over to peruse some pieces displayed along a portion of one wall. Here hung framed arts, painted with traditional materials and then layered and digimechanically manipulated to move. In one, a wooded canopy swayed, intermittently revealing the creatures living in the branches, which scrambled to hide themselves once more. In another one, a being of unknown species melted and then reformed, over and over.  
  
Jiroushin found himself drawn to the piece. Despite its busyness. It made him think of rebirth after, well … not after death, but some tribulation. It seemed hopeful.  
  
“Will. The theme of these paintings is will, as in one’s will to survive,” Jiroushin said, suddenly.  
  
“Thank you, sir.” That was the artist, who was the same short, dark-furred species as the one in the painting. The being bowed. Kanzeon snapped he/r fingers in front of Jiroushin’s face.  
  
“See? You are perspicacious. Good. I could use the help.”  
  
“Help, God/— er, Kanzeon?” He/r name, so sacred, seemed to burn coming from Jiroushin’s lips. The feeling was not all that unpleasant. “I will help you with anything!”  
  
“Just keep your eyes open, hmm?”  
  
Oh, his eyes were open. Had been opened. Something. It was like the light suffusing the god/dess had radiated, infiltrated his skin and being, brought him from hiding into the real universe. That effect had not been in any of the sacred texts he’d been read as a child. Was that normal? Was that yellow-haired guard over there, the one scowling at everyone, a Tenkai? He could be mistaken for a Third, or even a Second, were it not for that hair and lack of birthrank mark, and were he not working such a menial job. He seemed familiar, anyway, made Jiroushin think of home. Or perhaps home was just on his mind a lot more, recently, particularly in current company.  
  
Current company was treating this like a, well, like a date or something. Sh/e nattered on, about life, whatever, asking about him now and then, like did he get up every morning to comb that exquisitely graying topknot (he did) and did he special-order the good old Seventh Army’s Finest Hair Oil from home (when he could).  
  
At one point s/he fanned he/rself and exclaimed, “I’m parched. Why don’t you go get us a drink? Wait!” Jiroushin had already disengaged from he/r hand on his arm and was heading for the nearest beverage seller, when the god/dess called him back. “I’m falling into old, bad habits, and so are you. Let’s both go get a sip of something relaxing.”  
  
It was a thrilling condescension.  
  
The god/dess also condescended to request a late lunch with his “friends.” While they may not have been his friends, per se, all except Fox agreed to the outing with alacrity. And even she agreed, out of curiosity at worst and, at best, a desire to keep their business plan on track.  
  
Kanzeon predictably provided the entertainment, telling droll stories of he/r travels. S/he didn’t seem to mind that Jiroushin took tiny nibbles of all he/r food before it was allowed to touch he/r lips; they’d organically seemed to fall into a pattern of behavior, of interaction between a First and a Fourth, that would seem natural at home. Modified as per Kanzeon’s instructions to be galactically democratic, of course.  
  
Fox struggled not to stare. She mostly failed. Every time Jiroushin did one of those little things, like tasted the wine or fetched the god/dess’s napkin from the floor or quietly ordered new utensils, Fox’s eyes widened and her lip-curl deepened until she was practically scowling. Likely, to her, his behavior didn’t look subservient so much as presumptuous. Or romantic, even.  
  
And it was also likely she was put out that Uko had transferred his attention elsewhere. He was not out of line: he was perfectly suave as he leered at the god/dess’s bountiful breasts, and he patted Fox’s arm now and then to pretend that he cared. But through it all he watched Kanzeon with a sly … knowing, a pointed attention that tried to be casual, that made Jiroushin’s fingers curl into fists below the table.  
  
Kanzeon and Koum talked art. They exchanged raptures over the station’s stupid archways.  
  
“The ancient architects put a great deal of native feeling into this place,” Kanzeon said.  
  
“Exquisite, how I feel the natural curves must flow into one another, underneath the metal. Even today, they’re interrupted at just the right moments by chasmit blocks. Mr. Jiroushin seemed to appreciate them as well.”  
  
Everyone looked at Jiroushin for his input. He chewed the diced green vegetable he’d just put into his mouth and swallowed. Finally he nodded, a tiny bow at them both. “Very chasmit,” he said, wondering if that was even a word.  
  
Kanzeon quirked an eyebrow and stared at him a moment, then leaned back in he/r chair and pretended to examine he/r fingernails. “You know, ninety-nine point nine nine nine nine et cetera percent of the inhabitants of this galaxy aren’t afraid to tell me their opinions. So you shouldn’t be, either.”  
  
Jiroushin ahemmed. He wanted to melt at the remonstrance in front of his colleagues. But then he was reminded of the painting. This wasn’t the first time he’d encountered a humiliating situation, and it wouldn’t be the last. He’d traveled among other beings for many years. He would re-form. Recover.  
  
“All right, then. Honestly, I feel that the archways were badly designed, and then polluted further by trying to refit them into Confluence standards. There is no balance to the placement of the blocks, none of the peace necessary to make one feel secure on a hunk of metal floating in nothing but vacuum and distant gravity. I feel like the original inhabitants built this station quickly and abandoned it like a bad job.”  
  
Everyone stared at him for a breathless moment. Then Uko laughed. “Disruptive to the well-ordered mind, eh?”  
  
Koum nodded. “Nothing like an alternate opinion, I always say.”  
  
“He has a point,” Kanzeon said. He/r voice took on a disingenuous breathiness. “Hmm. I wonder who the original builders were?”  
  
“Someone looking to be disruptive?” Uko suggested. “I’ll do my job and tell you that _chasmit_ means erratic, by the way.”  
  
“Probably local kids. There are academic papers about it, though I haven’t read any of them. It feels very Xenon to me,” Koum added. The Xenoni had once been from a system only two light years away from Ven’Keiun, but the original culture had long ago dispersed.  
  
Fox narrowed her eyes and leaned in. “The staff are staring at us. No! Don’t look!”  
  
Everyone looked anyway. The restaurant staff, a motley group of young beings in various states of youthful disarray, attempted to look very busy preparing for the evening rush, though it was clear they’d been doing something else only moments before. Their waiter, a one-eyed fellow with respectable dark hair, came over and asked if anything was amiss.  
  
“No, but I believe we are done,” Jiroushin said, and pulled out his card (surprised to see that it was not on fire).  
  
“Very good, sir.” The waiter’s smile was all that was appropriate, and unnerving at the same time. “How was the food, sir?”  
  
Koum answered. “Excellent. And I was lucky to have such fascinating company, too.”  
  
He and Uko said their goodbyes. Uko made a special salute to Kanzeon, who only raised an eyebrow back at him. Jiroushin thought he was coming to interpret those eyebrow quirks. That one had said, _cheeky infant, I know all about you._  
  
Presence of the god/dess or no, Fox berated Jiroushin in a hissed whisper during their walk to the hab-level lifts.  
  
“Did you even make arrangements with Mr. Koum to discuss further business? Our reason for coming here, by the way. In case you’ve forgotten.”  
  
“Odd that you should be the one reminding me of our business,” Jiroushin said. Straight out! He hadn’t expected to do that.  
  
Kanzeon snorted, and Fox colored. She obviously hadn’t expected him to say it, either. She stalked ahead and jabbed the button for the lift, and fumed in silence on the short ride up. When they reached the eighteenth level, she stepped out of the lift and glared at Jiroushin.  
  
“Are you coming?”  
  
“I shall see the—Kanzeon up to he/r room first,” he said, another unexpected pronouncement.  
  
Kanzeon took it in stride. “Such a gallant cutie,” s/he said. “I’m on twenty-four.”  
  
Fox hmphed. “Well, good night, Mr/s. Bosatsu. Jiroushin, I’ll ping Uko and see if I can’t salvage this deal.”  
  
“Not necessary. We have the deal.” And there, Jiroushin had surprised himself yet again. Yet it was true. Very Important Beings knew these things—especially when their eyes had been opened.  
  
“That will be thanks to me,” Fox muttered.  
  
“Not that either,” Jiroushin said, and hit the button to close the lift door on her open-mouthed glare.  
  
“Nicely done,” the god/dess commented as the lift continued upwards.  
  
“Why, er. Thank you? I hope I’m not being presumptuous by following you?”  
  
“A little. But presumption looks good on you.”  
  
Jiroushin floated an inch or so off the deck all the way to the god/dess’s quarters. As s/he palmed the door lock, he started to bow out of habit. Kanzeon grabbed his head between he/r palms to hold it steady, and then s/he gave him a very Tenkai salutation: kisses. On both cheeks. He/r breath smelled of golden, shining, honey, and he/r succulent breasts brushed Jiroushin’s chest.  
  
“This acquaintance is good for both of us, I think. Nighters!” s/he said, and slipped away through the door.  
  
Jiroushin floated at least several inches off the deck the whole way back to his room.  
  
***  
  
He work up early and tired. He’d spent his long evening in several pursuits. Mainly, he’d researched Firsts, trying to see what powers they possessed, and looking specifically to see what, if any, effects that proximity to Firsts might have on the lower orders. None of the available texts had anything to say about First’s powers, but then those texts had been written by simpering Tenkai Fourths and Fifths, who would have been too afraid to write candidly if they’d had the knowledge, fearing to give offense. Or be put to death.  
  
Texts written by Seconds and Thirds were not permitted to Jiroushin. Some searching of the Confluence net did uncover a rogue essay by a Jikaku Second, but it was not very helpful, either. Mostly it ranted about how the Tenkai birthrank system was bullshit and Firsts were no better than they should be. Easy for a Second to say.  
  
The writings all seemed to agree that Firsts were long-lived, even for Tenkai. Perhaps near-immortal.  
  
Jiroushin also fended several pings from Fox. After about an hour or so’s sulk, she’d apparently decided to pretend to be a respectable company employee and catch up on some paperwork, which began to fill his inbox. She also sent Jiroushin a somewhat polite acknowledgment of his expertise in transplanetary trading: _Uko pinged, says Koum looking forward to working with you. I’ll get the proposals ready. Night._  
  
And lastly, Jiroushin had spent the night contending with his own fevered fantasies. If Firsts were immortal, what did they do all those years? A being could learn a lot in forever. Do a lot. Things he refused to let himself contemplate while conscious (unconscious was another matter).  
  
Did they all have such lovely, deep, male/female voices? Those bountiful, toned bodies, that air of whimsical ownership of the galaxy? That streak of independence and desire to have fun and right wrongs? Jiroushin thought that Kanzeon must surely be one of a kind. He would be immensely lucky to serve he/r. For that was what he longed to do.  
  
Would s/he let him? S/he seemed determined to try and treat him as an equal.  
  
Which he could never be. Jiroushin prepared a quick and brisk morning tea, and then spent too long oiling his hair just so. He showed up outside Kanzeon’s door at ten-hundred—he’d bet the God/dess was a late riser—and palmed his identity to the visitor pad.  
  
Kanzeon remoted the door open. S/he was busy lounging on a settee in the filmiest morning garment Jiroushin had ever seen. S/he had one arm flung across he/r face in a pose that spoke of despair, or perhaps hangover. “Hullo,” she called in a wan voice.  
  
“God/d— Kanzeon. I hope you are not unwell?”  
  
“Nope. I just hate mornings.”  
  
“Ah.” Jiroushin kept his gaze away from the body beneath the garment, all the fascinating bits only barely concealed, to look at the room. To say Kanzeon’s quarters were a disaster would insult disasters. Never had he seen so many papers, items of clothing, toiletries, luggage, and parcels piled so high. “I came to see how I might help you today. Perhaps I could, er, tidy up your surroundings?”  
  
He/r democracy didn’t extend to turning down a little domestic assistance. “Oh. Ohhhhh. That would be lovely, darling.”  
  
Darling! Jiroushin set to work.  
  
Kanzeon ordered in some kulwa and pastries, which Jiroushin poured, tasted, and served. Then he hung clothes, stacked boxes, and stored luggage. After he/r morning stimulant, Kanzeon became talkative and animated once more. Luckily, Jiroushin was good at organizing, even while being chattered at.  
  
“I wanted to do a little tour of the outside of the station, find one of those young’uns running this place to take me out, but not with the neutrinos fucking up all the shipboard systems. It’s not a hop, and I’m pretty damned daring if I say so myself, but why court unnecessary trouble? Who wants to be stuck outside for who knows how long if who knows what happens?”  
  
“Not I,” Jiroushin agreed. It was clear that Firsts were as subject to the limits of technology as anyone else. Frowzled Fountain! How many golden chains and rings and pendants did one being need? Not this many. Jiroushin rigged a frame out of some of the clothing hangers and rods in the closet, plonked it onto the storage console, and hung the jewelry on it organized by size, shape and color.  
  
Kanzeon whistled when s/he saw it. “You’re a marvel. There’s my aquacontrine! I’ve been looking for it since before my last hop.”  
  
“I’m glad I found it. It would look lovely with your skin,” Jiroushin said. He must have been flustered from the compliment, or he’d’ve never dared to voice such a personal opinion aloud. He glanced over to see what reaction he’d garnered.  
  
Kanzeon grinned at him and lounged back onto the settee, slowly, letting the transparent material of he/r garment settle ever-so-gently about he/r. Jiroushin thought it a deliberate and provocative lounge.  
  
“They could use a galactic like you to straighten up shit at home,” Kanzeon said in a low, sultry voice. “Why aren’t you there, being a nice, organized husband to someone?”  
  
Jiroushin was being flirted with. His brain sputtered; his good sense prepared a diplomatic and self-effacing reply, but his mouth said, “I could ask the same of you.”  
  
“Ha ha! Because I’m not organized. And I’ve already told you why I don’t want to be at home.”  
  
“Just so.” _I could organize you_ Jiroushin thought, and not at all pruriently. Not much. He sighed and set to work picking up scattered papers; he’d arrange them by date, not daring to read their contents. He also didn’t dare to look at Kanzeon, being so lusciously … god/desslike. “I suppose I wanted to see things. See what I could do outside the conf—outside the opportunities I was given on Tenkai. Corporate work seemed a good fit.”  
  
“It was.” Kanzeon stood and sashayed over to the closet. S/he dropped her filmy robe and began to ruffle through the clothes Jiroushin had so painstakingly hung there. Dates were numbers, and the numbers weren’t making sense, and how could Jiroushin arrange the papers by date if the dates were all gibberish? “You can look, by the way. I spend a lot of time and effort keeping myself in shape, and I don’t mind being appreciated.”  
  
It was practically an order, right? Jiroushin looked. A little. There were almost too many beautiful, glowing bits to peruse in just a glance—delightfully rounded shoulders over toned arms with just enough muscle definition, and breasts, and he/r cute little navel and between powerful thighs, a cock that was comparable to his own, but lovelier, of course—  
  
“Why don’t you come work for—with—me? Now, don’t answer just because—”  
  
“Yes,” Jiroushin said.  
  
Kanzeon narrowed he/r eyes and gave that right eyebrow another quirk. “Are you saying that because you’re obligated? Or because I’m naked?”  
  
“No, and no, and yes, yes yes!”  
  
The eyebrow returned to its normal, delicate arch over the god/dess’s right eye. “Great! Partners?”  
  
“Yes. I am … very pleased,” Jiroushin understated. Partners! He couldn’t even say such aloud. He had a notion that Kanzeon would very easily take advantage of him. Who better to do that, however? He did like the idea of thumbing his nose a little at traditional Tenkai roles. Within limits. “But first I will finish cleaning this place up.”  
  
“I’m pleased also. You do that if you like, and then, let’s _plot_.”  
  
“Plot?”  
  
“Yep.” Kanzeon had slipped into something black, shiny, and tight that showed off he/r pelvis and rear to distracting advantage. S/he plucked the aquacontrine pendant from Jiroushin’s careful rows and fastened it about he/r neck. It gained a deeper blue hue, nestled against he/r pale breastbone, and looked better than Jiroushin had predicted. “There, Art. Koum is involved. Or that snarky kiddo assisting him is. Or both of them. And you’ve already nabbed ‘em. Karma is amazing, innit?”  
  
Karma? Jiroushin thought that might explain a great deal about his existence the last couple of days. Other things required more explanation, however. Then it came to him.  
  
“Involved in something to do with the station?” he ventured.  
  
Kanzeon did a finger-snap point-pow. “Sharp. There’s something weird here. This station is not what it seems, and I wanna find out what it actually is. Whatever that is.”  
  
Jiroushin wasn’t as sharp as he would’ve liked; he struggled to catch up. “The neutrino storm?”  
  
“Nah. That’s just usual random space crap.”  
  
They plotted. Jiroushin would meet with Koum and Uko, and he would do the deal and pretend as if … as if his existence hadn’t just become a thousand—no, a thousand-thousand—times more interesting and worth living. He would keep his eyes open. He had Fox set up a meeting (nice, to feel that he could order her around for once) at two. In a boardroom.  
  
The meeting room was not everything Jiroushin had wished for the previous day. It was tiny and discomforting, mostly because it was badly shaped and one bulging wall hissed. Likely it had been shoved in like an afterthought next to some sort of station machinery. But then, space on the station was admittedly strained at the moment. At least there was tea.  
  
“Congratulations,” Koum said with a beatific smile when he heard of Jiroushin’s resignation. “Tell me all about your exciting new life! Love is a—”  
  
“We’ll need to get moving on the plan,” Uko said. Koum jumped a little, as if he’d just been kicked under the table.  
  
“Oh! Yes. Indeed.”  
  
Fox tapped the table with one long fingernail. “As you can see from the files I distributed to everyone just before the meeting, we have some of the pricing you requested. However, you’d said in your initial message that your requests were only preliminary? Let me know how White Dragon Company, Limited can assist you in fulfilling your needs.”  
  
Jiroushin had insisted to Kanzeon that he would need to formally message out a resignation to his old employer. They wouldn’t receive the message for a couple of weeks, but it had to be done. He needed to at least tell Fox, too, and had done that as well, in person, outside the room before the meeting. She’d been less surprised and thrilled than he’d expected. But she would be good at Jiroushin’s job, no doubt.  
  
It turned out that Ven’Keiun wanted supplies. No, not Ven’Keiun, Jiroushin decided, as the scope of the supplies became clear. That world had its own thriving production industry, and the items they wanted were humdrum, almost. Food. Electrical and mechanical supplies. Cloth and cups and paper by the Confluence standard tonne. Enough to keep something like this station running for months.  
  
Aha. Kanzeon had been right—something was up with these two. Jiroushin decided to be presumptuous.  
  
“White Dragon Company is a specialized procurer. These items could be purchased from any of the bulk galactic suppliers. May I ask why you contacted us?” he asked.  
  
“We’re very choosy,” Uko answered. His smile was slim and condescending.  
  
“I liked the name,” Koum said, with a dry smirk at Uko. “How about the sicky kits?”  
  
“Medical supplies,” Uko translated.  
  
“We can certainly provide those,” Fox interjected, quickly.  
  
The pricing dropped considerably based upon the volume. After a couple of hours of back-and-forth, the prices reached a point where both parties were satisfied. The Ven’Keiuni offered to pay extra for expedited delivery. Fox did all the work, her fingers tap-tap-tapping upon her handheld as Koum and Uko itemized their requirements; she produced availabilities, shipping times, and all the other mundanes.  
  
It made Jiroushin feel better about quitting so suddenly. Not that he’d felt all that badly about doing what he’d suddenly felt he was born to do. Maybe it was love. Who cared?  
  
With his eyes opened, it was all actually rather boring, and the people were more interesting than the business. Koum, for example, had an indentation upon his forehead, right in the middle, like the remnants of a half-formed scar. Or birthmark. Birthrank mark, to be exact. _There are Tenkai everywhere._ He had many things to report to Kanzeon.  
  
At last business was concluded. Jiroushin bowed out of an invitation to another late lunch; Fox did not. Perhaps because of her handling of their trade, or for other reasons of his own, Uko’s interest in her seemed to be renewed.  
  
“Business done! Onto cultural pleasures, delightful creature,” he said, and held out an arm.  
  
Fox took it, but with an aloof judgment in her eyes. On his way out and back to the hab-levels, Jiroushin couldn’t help but ping her. _Well done. But you’re married, Fox._  
  
_Thanks. And it’s practically a legal separation at this point!_  
  
Jiroushin exited the lift at the twenty-fourth level and rounded a corner to see a purple-haired waiter, holding a tray of delicacies, about to palm the door to Kanzeon’s quarters. Jiroushin quick-stepped over and held out his hands.  
  
“I’ll take that. Wait. Aren’t you a customs agent? Why are you pretending to be a room attendant—”  
  
“Shit,” the man said. He picked up one of the morsels on the plate and jabbed it into Jiroushin’s mouth before he could be stopped. “Here, taste this for me, asshole! Hee hee.”  
  
“Mmph—” Jiroushin protested, and then fell to the deck.  
  
***  
  
He was awakened by several voices arguing.  
  
“Moron. We wanted the First, not him.”  
  
“I couldn’t help it! He recognized me. But I showed him, ha ha, hee!”  
  
“Cause you’re such a showy dumbass.”  
  
“Shut up. He’s awake.”  
  
They’d noticed. Jiroushin tried to sit up—he was lying on his side—but found he couldn’t move. Immobilized? He tested his fingers, legs, feet. No, just normally tied up.  
  
“Well, Blondie, he can’t do anything to us, anyway.” That drawl moved closer and a head of magenta hair came into Jiroushin’s view. It was the paywall operator from the art show. Jiroushin scowled at the man’s sideways grin. “You’re not a fighter, are ya? Not gonna fight?”  
  
“Not physically, no,” Jiroushin said with what he thought was remarkable composure.  
  
“Awsers.” Hands gripped Jiroushin’s shoulders, and with a grunt, the man rolled him over and onto his back, and then yanked him up into a sitting position against a wall.  
  
He was in a tiny room much like the one he’d just left. There was a familiar hissing, and unfamiliar smoke. There were several half-recognized faces staring down at him. Slimwire bound him at the hands, knees, and ankles. He had the will to survive, to overcome, even, but he’d not kept up with his fitness regimen. Likely Kanzeon would give him the push he needed— Kanzeon!  
  
“You said the First! If you’ve hurt Kanzeon, I’ll—”  
  
“You’ll do nothing!” That was the purple-haired customs agent-slash-room attendant-slash-criminal who’d somehow knocked Jiroushin out. He bent down and waved long, claw-like fingernails perilously close to Jiroushin’s eyeballs. “I’m your worst nightmare!”  
  
“Lay off and shut up, Zak,” said the blond fellow—the security guard! He was smoking some kind of illegal roll-up and glaring at everyone, Jiroushin included. “We haven’t hurt the First. Nobody’s been hurt. Yet.”  
  
“Koum’s gonna be pissed!” said a higher, more excited voice. It was the room-agent-kid.  
  
Koum! Steaming Seconds, Kanzeon had been correct.  
  
“What do you want?” Jiroushin asked.  
  
“Independence.” That friendly-not-friendly voice had come from … Jiroushin’s waiter. It was starting to feel like a family reunion.  
  
“Aww, Kai, don’t tell ‘im everything!”  
  
“Well, everyone will know sooner or later.”  
  
“Once we get our supplies and get all these stupid artists and refugees outta here,” someone said.  
  
“Ooh, Koum’s gonna be pissed,” the kid said again.  
  
“Has anyone told him?” That was a new voice, coming from a woman Jiroushin had not seen before, being distracted by the immediate criminals. She was very Tenkai-traditionally pretty, with her hair wound into long, dark tails. More immediately, she was holding a very deadly looking—and also illegal—projectile weapon. Pointed at Jiroushin.  
  
“I just left him,” Jiroushin said, choosing careful words. “He’s having lunch. I thought … he was going to pay for everything.”  
  
“Tch. He was. Is,” the blond security guard said. He dropped the crumpled end of his rollup into a paper cup on the table, where it hissed. He looked around the room at everyone. “Don’t anyone tell Koum anything yet.”  
  
“It was Uko’s idea,” the kid protested.  
  
“So absolutely everyone is involved in … whatever,” Jiroushin mused, mostly to himself. He saw Kai looking at him sharply, and added, “Independence. Which is impossible, you know.”  
  
“Naw, it ain’t,” the magenta-haired fellow said. “Gonna get our supplies, and with a few important hostages, hop this station the fuck out of here, somewhere nobody can bother us.”  
  
Zak spoke up again. “Yeah, our ancestors have been running from your kind for centuries.”  
  
Jiroushin snorted. “What, salesmen?”  
  
The blond man—the room’s senior criminal, it seemed—lit another smoke. “No, Tenkai.”  
  
The bullet finally hit the bullseye. Not literally, Jiroushin thought thankfully, as he eyed the gun pointed at him. But he’d just realized why he’d noticed all these people in particular, and it hadn’t been only their youth and insouciance. “You’re all Tenkai.”  
  
“A few generations removed, but yes,” Kai said. “Our ancestors all left at one time or another, once it became clear to them that they would never be allowed to achieve their own dreams, or own equality.”  
  
Jiroushin could tell them that he himself hadn’t set foot on Tenkai soil for twenty years, or that he shared their frustrations with the old system. But they wouldn’t care because he represented the home-born. And also because of his rank, maybe?  
  
“You’re lower-caste Tenkai,” Jiroushin amended. “Sixths?”  
  
“Not all of us,” the kid chirped.  
  
“Shut the fuck up, everyone,” the security guard said. “On to amending the plan.”  
  
“Better try something else to get the First,” Zak said.  
  
A wonderfully welcome-not-welcome deep voice chimed in. “Not necessary. I’m right here!”  
  
Kanzeon appeared in the doorway, looking fabulous in he/r black dress and aquacontrine and self-satisfied grin. Oddly, s/he had Koum in tow. Literally. S/he held a length of slimwire wrapped around one elegant left hand, and the other end circled Koum’s neck.  
  
Koum smiled, seeming to accept his bondage with his usual humored equanimity.  
  
The gun wavered in the ponytailed woman’s hands, as if she couldn’t decide whether to point it at Jiroushin or the god/dess. Jiroushin breathed a sigh of relief when she eventually settled it back in his direction.  
  
“Kanzeon!” he cried.  
  
“Koum!”  
  
“Genjyo, what in the universe’s name are you doing?” Koum said.  
  
“Well, you were traipsing through the art show, and these idiots thought we needed insurance. And now you’ve gone and got yourself captured,” the leader—Genjyo—said through a cloud of exhaled smoke. He looked at Kanzeon. “You with the Enforcers?”  
  
“Nope. Just an art fan passing through,” Kanzeon said.  
  
The woman with the gun took a couple of long strides to Jiroushin’s side, where she pressed the weapon directly against his head. “We still have your flunky!”  
  
“Partner,” both Jiroushin and Kanzeon said at the same time. They both grinned. Jiroushin’s smile was necessarily brief, as he felt the cold metal nudge harder at his temple.  
  
Koum sighed. “You crazy kids. We just ordered all our supplies. We’d’ve had them within weeks. We’ve made a lot of money in the last few days.” This last was said over his shoulder, to Kanzeon.  
  
What a bunch of insane, ill-conspiring idiots, Jiroushin thought. He could’ve planned a failed coup much more thoroughly. He would have said so, but idiots or no, they were still quite dangerous.  
  
“Why would you want Tenkai? We’re not impor—as important out here,” Jiroushin had to ask. “At least, I’m not.”  
  
At least three voices answered him at the same time. “Revenge,” said one, and “poetic justice,” said another, and on top of that was a “cause we want to.”  
  
“Well, you should definitely take me instead. I may have personally subjugated some of your ancestors,” Kanzeon said in an airy voice.  
  
“No!” Jiroushin cried.  
  
“Then we’ll do that,” said another familiar voice. Uko! He’d appeared behind Kanzeon with another gun. He thumbed something on it that clicked.  
  
“No,” Jiroushin cried again, and tossed his head sideways to shake the woman’s gun as he flopped forward onto his knees, struggling with all his might to get over to the doorway, do whatever he could to protect Kanzeon—  
  
“Ack!” the woman said, and there was an explosion, and a black blur, and then another explosion, and a white blur, and Jiroushin’s face was knocked into the deck carpeting and held there by something heavy on top of him.  
  
There were a few seconds of silence—no further explosions—and then everyone started shouting again.  
  
“Idiots!”  
  
“Oh, shit!”  
  
“I’m sorry, oh no!  
  
“Is anyone shot?”  
  
“I don’t … know. Ungh.” That had been Kanzeon—Jiroushin had felt he/r voice rumbling through the top of his head, which meant s/he was the heavy weight lying atop him.  
  
“Oh, Kanzeon, my dear god/dess,” Jiroushin wailed, fearing the worst. He struggled to move. After some shuffling and grunting, he/r weight was lifted from atop him. He flew upright as quickly as possible.  
  
“Did you see what s/he did?” That was the kid. “S/he tried to sacrifice he/rself for a _Fourth_.”  
  
“It was beautiful,” Koum croaked. He kneeled nearby, coughing and trying to extricate himself from the wire around his neck.  
  
Kanzeon was hunched and only half-standing, supported on either side by Genjyo and Kai. S/he checked he/rself over, groping breasts, crotch, and behind.  
  
“Nope, I’m not shot,” s/he announced, then looked down at Jiroushin. “Are you shot, darling?”  
  
Darling! Jiroushin didn’t care whether he was shot or not.  
  
Eventually it was determined that he was not shot—the projectile fired by the woman, who was currently weeping in the arms of the magenta-haired man, had gone into the wall without going through anybody first. The other bullet, from Uko’s gun, had gone into the ceiling. Both of the perpetrators swore they hadn’t meant to fire, but things had just gotten so hectic and crazy all of a sudden, and _bam!_  
  
Genjyo collected the weapons and shoved them into his trouser pockets. Jiroushin hoped the hectic powers of the universe would opt for a little more _bam_ before he had a chance to pull them out.  
  
More importantly, everyone was discussing the fact that Kanzeon had seen Jiroushin in danger, and had leapt between him and the weapon. After offering he/rself as substitute hostage.  
  
Jiroushin could understand their wonder. He could hardly believe it himself. Why, s/he might have been hurt, and then where would he be?  
  
While the group of crazies—er, rebels—argued, Kanzeon plopped he/rself onto the floor next to Jiroushin and snuggled close. Even better, s/he began unraveling the slimwire binding his extremities. “I noticed you being very gallant, cutie, trying to come to the rescue. But all anyone wants to talk about is me. Typical.”  
  
Jiroushin laughed. When his hands were freed, he used them to commit a grave blasphemy: he cupped Kanzeon’s cheeks in his palms, and he gave her a very untraditional salutation kiss. On the lips. He didn’t die for his transgression, though the little thrills of sweet breath and happy sensation that zipped through his bloodstream made his body feel rather unworldly.  
  
“Presumption looks very good on you,” Kanzeon said after a while, and then returned the salutation.  
  
Eventually Koum _ahem_ med for their attention. When he had it, he spoke for all of his group. “I swear that no harm will come to you. We will let you go, but first we just need to figure out how to do that without sacrificing our years of work.”  
  
Kanzeon answered for their side. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about us. I admire your gumption, and we both agree with you about home turf. We’ll be off as soon as the neutrinos clear the hell out of the system, and we’ll never bother you again.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” someone mumbled, probably Zak. Koum raised a hand for silence, but Kanzeon’s hackles had already risen. As had s/he, to her feet.  
  
“Do you need further proof of my truthfulness?” He/r deep voice boomed throughout the room, rattling the chairs and making Jiroushin’s hair stand on end. On top of that, it seemed as if Kanzeon’s glow had turned dark, menacing. Jiroushin found the effect not altogether unpleasant.  
  
Koum, on the other hand, was wearing a look Jiroushin had not seen on him before. It was alarm. He waved his palms up and down slowly, placatingly. “Not necessary. Please pardon us for wasting your time. Go whenever you like. Genjyo, give the man back his fiddly pad.”  
  
Behind him, Uko chuckled. “Handheld. And I say, life’s no fun without a little danger.”  
  
Untied, Jiroushin creaked to his feet. He felt every one of his one hundred and thirty-six years. His hair had fallen out of its knot, and he brushed it away from his eyes and straightened with all the dignity he could muster.  
  
Genjyo handed him his personal device. Jiroushin thumbed it on to be sure it hadn’t been fiddlied with. Somewhat satisfied, he looked at Koum with a Kanzeon-worthy cocked eyebrow.  
  
“You won’t take any more hostages.”  
  
“Tch. No. They’ve learned their lesson.” That time, Genjyo had answered.  
  
“And reimburse us for our rooms,” Jiroushin added.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“And you have to tell me something that’s been bothering me. You’re all out here, removed from home society, its restrictions. You could have gone anywhere, done anything. The Confluence is a democratic sort of place. Mostly. Why the bid for independence?”  
  
After glances among themselves, Koum gestured at Kai, who answered for them. “We hate Tenkai. Yet we keep being drawn together. Even all the way here, in the pointy end of the galaxy, we find each other. And still— still! Something keeps trying to call us back to the Core.”  
  
Genjyo snorted. “It’s like fucking DNA or something.”  
  
“Definitely fucking genetic,” Kanzeon said.  
  
Jiroushin ignored that strange bit of information in favor of something else he had to know. “Why this station? You’ve seen the archways. It’s a heap.”  
  
Uko answered. “Isn’t it? But we all ended up here regardless. So we’re trying to extend our distance, let’s say. Maybe to another galaxy.”  
  
Kanzeon snorted and examined he/r fingernails. “You might not believe it, but this place was built by rogue Tenkai. Ages and ages ago. They were trying to get as far away from their roots as possible.”  
  
“Obviously,” Jiroushin said.  
  
“That explains a lot about why I love it so.” Koum was nodding sagely. “Destimeaningful.”  
  
“He means karma.”  
  
“Fucking karma,” Genjyo added.  
  
“Welp. It’s been fascinating. Outers!” Kanzeon chirped. She and Jiroushin stuck their noses in the air, preparing to take their leave with grandeur. But outside in the hallway, they sped up their steps. Both of them were giggling quietly.  
  
Their association was becoming rather simpatico. Jiroushin wondered if that was also an effect of genetics, or of love. But then, who cared? However much time he—they—had, he would use it up or waste it as he wished. Exploring and having fun.  
  
Out in the lobby, they ran into Fox. She was dressed for a night out.  
  
“You’re not going to meet Uko, are you?” Jiroushin cautioned. He fretted over not telling her more. He needn’t have worried.  
  
“Ugh, no. He’s bad news.” Fox waved an invisible bad stench away from her indecorously made-up face. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I like ‘em bad. But I have a career to consider, you know? Bye!” And she clacked off.  
  
Jiroushin shrugged. “And so we all move on. In our own ways.”  
  
“Hooray! To a new life.” Kanzeon nestled closer. “I say we go somewhere and waste some time until the neutrinos fuck off and we can vamoose. Whaddya think?”  
  
“As my god/dess commands. I, myself, would like to examine some Art. Personally, and up close.”  
  
Kanzeon slapped his bottom, and Jiroushin ruminated that presumption had its rewards.  
  
***


End file.
